


what’s ink on skin to the feeling in our bones

by ballantine



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Multi, Shopping, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 14:30:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10664592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: Fill for the prompt:Max and Eleanor drag Anne out on a shopping date to try on dresses and get their hair styled. Anne complains the entire time, but later retaliates by taking them to a tattoo parlor and suggesting that they get matching tattoos. She's definitely not expecting Max and Eleanor to agree to the idea, and quickly regrets everything because she HATES needles.





	what’s ink on skin to the feeling in our bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spiderlilies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderlilies/gifts).



> Huge thanks to [spiderlilies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderlilies/pseuds/spiderlilies), both for the fun prompt and being so gracious about my ridiculously late fill. This story might have turned out a tad different than you expected, but I hope you like it!

A bouncy indie pop ballad fills the air: by the sound of it, some Aussie band that cut their teeth on surfing through monster-infested waters and now feel like they can take over the world one chart hit at a time. Anne’s been waiting long enough that she’s resorted to trying to spot the speakers concealed throughout the store. She lines up imaginary kill shots for each and every one.

Hard to say how long it’s been since she first sat in this armchair. The store supplies a television for all long-suffering shopping companions in the holding pen, but the current channel is switched over to golf. Has been playing golf for hours, possibly on a loop. Anne would hold this selection against the men who have rotated in and out of the other two nearby chairs, but their faces have all been so perfectly blank as they gazed at the screen, she wasn’t sure they were actually still alive.

She could have skived off ages ago, met up with the other two afterwards for lunch. Eleanor had said as much — glance and tone overbearing as always. (Max insists to pay no mind, that that’s just her way, but Anne never fails to bridle to it.)

She might have caved to the excuse and gone anyway, except Max had reached out and trailed a hand down her arm and tangled their fingers together. Used the contact to tug Anne into a kiss, soft and lingering and _blatant_ in front of the clerk with the fixed plastic smile.

Anyway, so Anne stayed.

She tugs her beanie down further over her head and avoids the eye of the nearby saleswoman, who doesn’t seem eager to approach but nevertheless keeps eying her, like at any moment Anne is going to grab a handful of the overpriced scarves hanging next to her head and make a run for it. Anne exhales in irritation and ignores her.

After another moment, her eyes drift helplessly over to the television, where white men in ugly outfits study a stretch of grass like it holds the key to world peace, or maybe something they actually care about, like endless free pussy. Her eyelids start to grow heavy.

“That looks _fantastic_ , Max, you have to get it.”

Anne jerks in her seat and shoves herself upright. Blinking rapidly, she looks over to where Max and Eleanor have finally emerged from the dressing rooms. Eleanor is empty-handed and back in her previous outfit — and, fucking hell, did Anne wait around all this time only for her to get _nothing?_ — but Max is in front of the standing tri-fold mirror, studying her reflection critically.

She doesn’t know what Max sees that is bringing out that expression on her fact. Anne doesn’t know shit about clothing beyond that she prefers it reasonably clean and with enough layers that she can hide a knife when she needs to. And obviously Max would look beautiful dressed in a burlap sack. But.

The floaty sundress she is wearing is a dark blue. The other two probably know the name of the precise shade, be it _royal_ or _navy_ or _commando_ or whatever the fuck.

Anyway, it’s dark blue. Makes her hair seem even darker than normal, like something you could fall into and never want to escape. Anne can’t look away.

Meanwhile, those sad fucks in the other chairs have to keep looking at golf. (They better still be looking at the golf.)

Eleanor asks, “Well, what do you think? If you don’t buy it, I’m going to have to.”

In the mirror, Max’s eyes flick to Eleanor’s. “It won’t fit you.”

“What a shame. I suppose I’d just have to find someone to take it off my hands.”

Max flashes a slight smile but then returns to frowning at her reflection. “I’m not certain I’d have reason to wear it.”

“I thought we agreed we were throwing practicality to the wind today.”

From Eleanor’s slightly wistful tone, Anne got the impression that Max used to be a lot less practical. Ancient history between the two of them, but nothing Anne is going to press Max to tell her about.

Max shakes her head. “We’re not all lucky enough to be able to just wave our hands and — ” She looks up into the mirror again and this time catches Anne’s eyes. Whatever she sees there causes her words to dry up completely.

Anyway, Max buys the dress.

—

Eleanor announces they are doing lunch before getting their hair done, and she says it as if bestowing a favor upon Anne — complete with meaningful glance and smile.

Anne despises being humored, but she gives her a cool nod. For Max’s sake. If anyone causes friction on this day — the one day off Max has for the next week — it’s not going to be her.

A muscle jumps in Eleanor’s jaw and she looks away. She doesn’t look as smug at getting her way as Anne would have expected. Well, fuck, what more does she want, a _thank you_? Maybe in letter form, signed and notarized?

She is distracted from her irritation by Max slipping a hand into hers. She glances down and sees she has grabbed Eleanor’s hand as well.

Max’s expression is clear and content. It’s a look she has down pat because of work (retail, she has explained at length to all the regulars down at the Walrus Pub, is a fucking _bitch_ ). Most times, even Anne can’t tell what feeling lays behind the smile she wears. Usually she’s busy hoping it’s just how Max actually feels around her.

They walk down the street like that, hand-in-hand-in-hand like a school group, or maybe like girlfriends.

Anne’s not used to being so obvious in public. Eleanor usually walks around as if daring someone to say a word; Max heads off most hostility with that almost aggressive brand of pleasantness that is her specialty. But whenever Anne’s been made, it usually is accompanied by a slur, and then she’s never seen any other option but fighting.

That’s not compatible with a day date, though. Max probably won’t be happy if Anne gets hauled off by security before they get around to dinner.

It’s just — weird, is all. Eleanor and Max can hold hands and stand like they’re trying to occupy the same space and most people will still stubbornly assume that they’re just good friends. Anne knows that irritates the living hell out of both of them.

She shouldn’t be envious. But she’s never been into anyone knowing her business, and it doesn’t get more private than _fucking_ and — and _love_ and shit. So she can’t help but be a little jealous of the assumption people make about the other two; she can’t seem to so much as touch Max’s _shoulder_ without people immediately knowing the nature of their relationship.

—

Lunch ends up being surprisingly easy. They go to a laidback sandwich shop that also serves beer, and Anne allows herself to be drawn out enough to talk some about Jack and work. It’s more words than she’s said all day, but it doesn’t feel awkward or forced. Even Eleanor looks interested as she talks — eyes sharp and aware but surprisingly free of judgment.

Anne doesn’t know what to make of it. She’s wrongfooted enough as it is around Eleanor — the other woman always has the words and always takes that step forward into a verbal fight. She does with talking what Anne can only do with brawling, and damn if it isn’t a wonder every time.

Anyway, lunch goes fine.

—

Anne doesn’t get out of participating at the hairdresser.

A week ago, she’d been minding her own business in the shower, her fingers tangling in her hair the same as always. It’s an ordeal every time, hair knotting at the base of her neck like it’s plotting something bad and needs the close quarters to conspire. Anne thought more than once about simply cutting it all off.

Her curses were choked off when a pair of slim hands appeared in her soap-blurred eyeline. She held still as they brushed back the dripping soap from her forehead. Bit her lip as they carefully went through her hair, reorienting knots and smoothing everything else, until it all felt like it was some kind of commercial for fancy shampoo.

Max’s breasts were warm against her wet back, but it was barely erotic, almost matter-of-fact.

Anne had never shared a shower before. She shivered. Would have worried about standing too stiff, except every movement of the other woman seemed to belay all awkwardness. It was as if they were just two people together, familiar and fond and completely natural.

“Do you wish to cut it short?” Max asked afterwards, neutral because she wanted it to be Anne’s choice alone. And fuck, that’s nice and all, but she really should have asked the question before she stepped in the shower with her.

“No,” Anne said. She didn’t follow up with any explanation; her bitten lip and evasive eyes probably said it all.

Max didn’t say anything then, but she mentions now that Anne does have some _split ends_. Which is bad, Anne guesses.

She feels weird taking her hat off when it comes to the salon, what with having a full day’s worth of hat hair and all, but the stylist catches on right away and ushers her to a wash station without a word or look to make it judgmental. Max and Eleanor have already disappeared into the depths of the salon, like their business is the hush-hush sort only fit for members who have reached a special rank in the secret society of women’s hair care.

The hairdresser washes her hair, and Anne doesn’t want to admit it, but it feels nice — strong, practiced hands massaging her scalp and dealing with the length of hair like it’s nothing at all. Afterwards she cuts a few inches off the sheet of ungainly red locks, and Anne’s hair seems to curl a little inwards, like it actually wants to be a part of her face.

That’s pretty all right, far as things go.

—

Afterwards, the other two seem to register her ever-so-slight pleasure at the haircut. They revel in finally getting her to smile, and Anne, still not accustomed to their particular brand of light-hearted teasing, maybe kind of... overreacts.

It’s not the worst overreaction she’s ever had. It’s not as bad as when Hamund told the whole pub that he’d slept with Max and Anne, instead of telling him to fuck off or even speaking two words to Max herself, had snuck out into the back alley while he was smoking and broke his arm. (She doesn’t feel guilty; there were rumors about the kinds of things Hamund liked to do to girls.)

“We should get tattoos,” she hears herself announce, blunt and aggressive and really fucking _stupid_ , because Anne has a deathly fear of needles.

The other two look at her in surprise and then Eleanor _laughs_. Anne maintains her poker face only through years of practice.

“Oh, sorry,” Eleanor says, disbelief filling her voice as her initial laughter dies out. “You’re not joking?”

 _Tell her you’re fucking joking_ . _What the fuck. What the_ fuck _?_

“‘Course I’m not joking. I’ve spent all day being dragged from dress shop to dress shop, watching you two stare at — at handkerchiefs, or whatever the fuck.”

“ _Handkerchiefs_ — ?” Eleanor says. Max shushes her without taking her eyes off Anne, who for some reason keep bulldozing on ahead.

“I say it’s my turn to pick something. Unless it’s too butch for you, _El_?” She stresses the nickname, knowing it’s what that wanker Woodes Rogers used to call her. He liked his girls in delicate dresses and makeup and heels that wouldn’t make them taller than him.

The humor drains out of Eleanor’s face, and she straightens up. Max rolls her eyes and sighs at nothing in particular.

Eleanor never could resist responding to a challenge, especially not one coming from Anne. It makes the sex between them spectacular; everything else about their relationship a little less so.

They stare each other down. Anne plans on giving it a few more seconds, thinking she’ll just shrug it off as a joke and they can continue safely on to whatever shop the other two had originally planned for — but she didn’t count on Max.

Stupid. One should always account for Max.

“I like this idea, Anne. We’d all get something that matched, no?”

Anne feels her smirk freeze. After a moment, she manages, “‘Course. That’s the idea.”

Max latches onto their arms and begins towing the two of them down the sidewalk. “Something tasteful,” she continues cheerfully.

“Perhaps — we want to look up reviews for the best place,” Anne says woodenly, still taken aback by this terrible turn of events. “Maybe make an appointment? I don’t even know if there’s a shop nearby.”

Max shakes her head dismissively and flashes her an indulgent smile. “There’s one over on Fourth, just a few blocks away. I’ve heard good things — Idelle got her second and third tattoos there.”

“Did she,” Anne says, a little weakly. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Eleanor looking in her direction. Anne doesn’t meet her gaze. If she does, there’d be no hiding the burgeoning panic. Then not only would she be in store for some nightmare time with a needle, but she’d lose face too.

She wishes desperately that she was back watching the stupid golf.

It’s okay. She can do this. Loads of people get tattoos. Jack’s mate Featherstone has a whole sleeve of them. If that squirrely bugger can do it, so can she.

But by the time the tattoo parlor comes into sight, she’s walking on legs that have gone somewhat numb from terror. She thinks it can’t get worse, but then this bloke walks out of the shop with a large white bandage on his neck, blood spotting through, and her stomach turns over.

“Excited, Anne?” Max asks brightly as they swing into the shop. Anne merely grunts an affirmative, because she can’t muster any words.

The shop is clean and brightly lit, its walls awash in color with displays of the various artists’ designs. Anne watches Eleanor and Max walk up to talk to the man behind the front counter, and then quickly spins to stare at the wall, pretending to study the tattoo examples in interest when really she’s fighting a panic attack.

_Just tell Max you can’t do it. She’ll understand. She won’t think poorly of you._

Anne knows it’s the truth, and if she were alone with Max she’d probably take her own advice. But she can’t back down in front of Eleanor. Their relationship is complicated enough without adding pity to the mix.

“Oh!” Max says, still in the same weirdly enthusiastic tone she’d been using since Anne first suggested the bloody idea. “What do two you think of this design? It’s discreet, but has a bit of rebel flair to it?”

Anne blinks hard at the wall and then glances down at the heavy leather-bound portfolio book in Max’s hands. Her slim, neatly trimmed finger points to a design — thick dark lines in complicated swirls. Anne doesn’t know if it’s supposed to mean something or what. She thinks it’d be pretty enough, if she weren’t having to picture it being carved into her flesh. Her thoughts drown out Max’s explanation of what the design is supposed to signify.

“Anne?” Eleanor asks sharply, and that jerks Anne out of her haze a little. “What do you think?”

“Sure,” Anne says, and then more firmly: “Yes, definitely.”

The other two look at her oddly, but she reverts her own gaze to the wall. She can do this. It’s okay. Loads of people do it. There is nothing rational about her fears.

She doesn’t know how long she gazes at the wall, but all too soon Max is gently touching her elbow and saying, “Your turn, Anne.”

Anne turns blindly, but she thinks she sees Max bite her lip in distress. Normally Anne would immediately move to address that but — but. There is a man standing next to one of the chairs in the tattoo stations, looking at her expectantly.

There’s a peculiar roaring in Anne’s ears. She somehow forces herself forward. Lowers herself into a chair as if some outside force is moving her limbs.

“First time, yeah?” The man asks, quirking a grin at her. “Don’t worry about it. Gonna give you a little taste, and you’ll be dying for the next one, just wait. You look like a repeater for sure.”

Anne bites her cheek to stop herself from snarling at him.

She breathes in carefully as the man places the a sticky material with the design on her upper arm and smoothes it over with warm, careful fingers.

“Just have to wait a few minutes for it to set,” he says, and she nods stiffly.

A few minutes. She has a few more minutes to pull herself together and brace for the appearance of the needle. She can do this. She can.

Anne swallows and looks deliberately away from the man and her arm and, really, that entire side of the room. Maybe if she doesn’t see any of it happen, she won’t feel it? Isn’t that what the nurses always say when they’re giving injections?

In her determination to not look at half the room, she finds herself gazing at Eleanor and Max, who are standing by the counter.

Max has her hands clasped behind her back, which she only does when she’s uncertain about something. She’s probably finally feeling bad about the whole thing, which is just typical. Max may feel terrible about something, but it never stops her from doing whatever it is she feels she needs to do.

Eleanor’s leaning over the glass on her elbows, watching the proceedings intently. To Anne’s slight surprise, she doesn’t look arrogant or pleased with herself or anything like that. She almost looks worried — well, worried for Eleanor. Which mostly consists of gritting her teeth and looking supremely annoyed with the world.

Anne is surprised to realize she knows the other woman well enough to recognize the expression.

“Right, love. That’s set then,” the man says, and wheels his chair back over to her side.

Anne tenses but still doesn’t look at him. Instead, she finds herself meeting Eleanor’s eyes. She swallows and lifts her chin slightly just out of sheer fucking habit. She might faint or go comatose from terror in a few minutes, but she can at least start the shitshow out right.

In response, Eleanor grins at her a little.

She feels the man carefully peel off the design paper and tries not to shake too obviously. She turns her gaze to her feet and fights to keep her breath steady.

“Well, what do you think?”

Anne narrows her eyes at her shoes. What the fuck is this prick going for? “What?”

“The design?” The man shoves his stool a few feet and angles his head a ridiculous amount so he can meet her eyes. He looks patient, if a little puzzled. “What do you think of it?”

“It’s fine,” Anne says without looking at her arm. She imagines she can still feel where the tape was — close to where the needle will soon be. “Can we just get it over with, yeah?”

The man gives an aborted glance over his shoulder to Max and Eleanor standing at the counter. He scratches the line of his eyebrow and laughs a little. “Uh — it’s done, love. You can get up.”

“What?” Anne asks. Confused.

He shrugs helplessly. “You guys asked for the temporaries, right? If I got that wrong I can fix it — just need to redo the imprint — ”

Anne stops hearing clearly after the first sentence. Relief descends like euphoria, and she doesn’t bother even speaking to the man before shoving herself out of the chair and across the room, as far away from the whole station as she can get. After a moment of glancing down at her arm to realize it’s real — the design is dark and wet against her bare arm — she gives in to impulse and launches herself out of the shop entirely.

Outside is bright and open and full of perfectly mundane milling people and noises. Anne leans against the bright wall just out of view of the shop’s windows, and _breathes_.

After about ten minutes, the shop door opens and Max and Eleanor emerge. They tentatively array themselves in front of her, and she watches them through slitted eyes. Max has the design on the delicate curve of her clavicle, very neatly done. Eleanor’s is on her inner right wrist.

“So,” she says lowly, “temporary?”

Max cocks her head and says slowly, “We thought it would be smarter to try out the design before getting it permanently. Eleanor’s idea.” She glances between them and adds, “She was quite insistent. You know how she gets.”

Eleanor twitches slightly at the comment, but doesn’t otherwise react, too busy watching Anne with what might be apprehension.

Anne nods and straightens up from where she’d been leaning against the building. She gestures at the sidewalk, as if to say _well, shall we?_

They make it just to the end of the building, to the alley, before Anne grabs Eleanor and presses her up against the bricks. Then she cups her hand around the back of her long proud neck and kisses the hell out of her.

Eleanor makes a noise, but it’s not a protesting one. And her hands come up real quick to bury themselves in Anne’s hair.

They kiss, and for maybe the first time it’s something other than challenging and angry. Anne presses close and breathes in; the smell of Eleanor relaxes her.

When they separate, Eleanor’s lipstick is a little smudged and the color is running high on her cheeks. She clears her throat and straightens her jacket like she can regain her decorum through will alone — and she probably could, because, well. It’s Eleanor.

She glances past Anne’s shoulder and demands, “Max, why do you look so smug?”

Anne wheels around, and the other woman _does_ look oddly satisfied with herself.

“No reason,” Max says, biting down on a private smile and looking away.

“Right,” Anne says after a moment. “Well, we should be going. You two had a few other places you wanted to hit up, right?”

Eleanor glances at her quickly and away. She licks her lips. “Sure. That was the plan.”

In mutual agreement, they step away from the building and start walking down the sidewalk. After a moment, Anne looks back down to her new tattoo. She’s curious — wants to touch it, but is unsure if that will damage the design.

“He said they'd wash off in about a week,” Max says.

Anne looks at her, but she just continues to smile blandly. As if Anne would fall for that. Max only smiles like that when she’s deliberately manipulating people. After a moment, Anne arches an eyebrow at her and makes a face, and the smile collapses into something far more genuine.

They walk a few more blocks until they find another shop that had been on the list for the day. Anne checks her phone; there’s only another hour or so before everything closes. She can wait that long.

She glances over at Eleanor and Max; the two are inspecting earrings in a case, two heads bowed together, one dark and one light. They look right. Anne glances down at her arm again and runs a finger over the shape of the dried design. She thinks that looks kind of right too.

Anyway, Anne gets the real tattoo.

(Eventually.)


End file.
